


In a Crowd of Thousands (Or: In Which Our Intrepid Heroine Finally Gets a Clue)

by thewhiskerydragon



Series: home, love, family [2]
Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Dorks in Love, F/M, Fluff, Paris (City), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-11-06 23:47:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhiskerydragon/pseuds/thewhiskerydragon
Summary: Anya always dreamed that her first kiss would be in Paris with a handsome prince.





	1. evening

She finds him at the Pont Alexandre III.

The setting Sun has washed the sky in swaths of violet and rose, and the waters of the River Seine glitter like diamonds in a sea of ink. Dmitry cuts a dashing figure even in his ragged old waistcoat, silhouetted against the Parisian sunset. His suitcase rests at his feet—packed, no doubt, for a long train ride. Where does he intend to go? Back to Russia? No, not a chance. England, then? America? Or perhaps he means to disappear to some other European city where he can spend the rest of his life hustling and swindling and barely scraping by.

And without her.

Dmitry takes a startled step back when he catches her eye, his posture stiffening visibly. He regards her, as Anya observes with a sinking heart, not with malice or disdain, but rather an unnerving lack of affection and none of that roguish, streetwise charm she has come to love. No, she sees it now—the regret and heartbreak etched into the hardness of his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, the tightness of his shoulders. He’s always had an unspoken air of sadness about him, but this is a deeper, duller ache, the kind that slowly gnaws at you no matter how hard you try to press it into some small, distant corner of your mind. It’s a kind of pain they both know all too well.

The silence between the two of them seems to stretch to eternity, threatening to crack under the weight of their thoughts and splinter into a million pieces. Anya wants to reach out to him, but if she makes a move he may startle and flee like some frightened Parisian pigeon, so her feet stay rooted to the spot while the rest of her body leans forwards, threatening to take flight.

Dmitry is the first to break. “If you ever see me from a carriage again,” he says sharply, “don’t wave, don’t smile.”

Anya’s heart sinks further until it comes to a rest at the pit of her stomach.

Dmitry's hands clench into fists and his scowl softens as he struggles for words. “I don’t want to be in love with someone I can’t have for the rest of my life.”

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for his words to sink in, and once they do it’s as if she’s had the wind knocked right out of her.

 _He loves me?_ she thinks. And then: _He loves me!_

Can she trust her ears? Is this all a wonderful delusional fantasy?

“Goodbye, Anya,” Dmitry says with a curt bow, and suddenly all Anya can see is the boy at the parade from all those years ago, bowing to her just as he is now, and he’s not changed a bit, her scrappy little street-rat. Then, as if an afterthought: “Your Majesty.”

He turns to leave, and Anya’s mind goes blank with panic. _Don’t go_ , she wants to say, _please don’t leave me_ , but the words dry up in her mouth like a bad taste and he’s already up and walking away from her, making his way across the street, suitcase in hand, headed off alone into the world, and in that moment Anya knows that if she lets him go now, she will never ever find him again. And then, because she is frightened and giddy and can think of nothing else to say, she shouts, “I always dreamed that my first kiss would be in Paris with a handsome prince.”

Dmitry stops dead in his tracks and turns back to shoot her a cross look. “I’m not your prince, Anya,” he snaps.  

The sound of his voice, laced with regret and unspoken longing, steels something deep inside of her, and she marches towards him with all the regal authority of the Dowager Empress herself, the sound of her own beating heart pounding wildly in her ears. “The Grand Duchess Anastasia would beg to disagree, Dima!”

Half-surprised at her own forcefulness, Anya slams the suitcase to the ground. Dmitry’s mouth falls open into an ‘o’ as she steps on top of the suitcase, seizes his face in her hands, and kisses him.  

Dmitry's lips are stiff and unsure against hers and his hands hover nervously at his sides as if he has no idea where to put them, but just a moment later she feels him melt in her arms as he returns the kiss, and it’s as if she’s embracing the Sun itself. Something hot and fiery stirs in her belly as a bright tingling warmth buzzes down her spine, and Anya wonders how her heart has not burst from joy yet.

They break apart after what seems like an eternity. Anya is breathless and dizzy, and her heart beats like the frantic wings of a butterfly. This, she thinks, must be what it feels like to fly. It’s an entirely alien sensation to her, both terrifying and intoxicating, and in that moment she wants nothing more than to kiss him again. He’s beautiful, her scruffy, lion-hearted prince of a street rat, with his ruffled hair and perpetual smirk. In the late evening lamplight, his eyes are a deep, warm brown, flecked with gold and green. Anya takes his hands in her own and runs the pads of her thumbs over the calluses on his knuckles. He’s shaking—or maybe she is. She can’t tell.

“Anya," he murmurs distantly.

Anya's eyes glitter with tears. "I always knew I'd find you again."

Russia seems like a forgotten dream from a past life as Anya thinks of all she has found here in Paris—Dmitry, Nana, herself even. Through chance or fate or serendipity, or whatever divine powers that may be, she’s found a home.

And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.

Anya’s mind flashes to her Nana—she has a Nana again!—and the crowds of hungry reporters back at the hotel. She should be heading back. They’re waiting for her, no doubt, and she had left without so much as a note. She wonders if Nana will panic. But then Dmitry offers her his arm with a dashing grin, more handsome and charming than any fairytale prince, and Anya flushes all the way to the roots of her hair. She is in Paris, she is in love, and in that moment, nothing else matters.

Perhaps Nana can wait a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anastasia has forever been one of my all-time favorite movies and I've fallen in love with it all over again in its Broadway incarnation. I've been a big reader of fanfic for quite a while but I've never had the guts to actually post something of my own, so here it is: my first foray into writing fanfiction!  
> Any and all feedback/criticism is appreciated. Thanks for reading! :)


	2. morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimya morning cuddles, fluff, and angst, with a hearty does of Dmitry's internal ramblings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, looks like this one-shot has expanded!

They don’t leave Paris right away, which is fine by Dmitry—the warmth of spring is a welcome reprieve from the brutality of Russian winter, and by God, Dmitry _hates_ the winter. No matter how heavily you bundle up, the bitter cold still seeps into your bones and chills you to the core, and the wind bites at every inch of exposed flesh until your skin is chapped and sore and bright red. He tries hard to forget about those countless nights spent huddled in doorways and abandoned buildings, the aimless wanderings through the streets of St. Petersburg, the dull ache of hunger low in his stomach. Dmitry thanks his lucky stars that _that_ particular chapter of his life is well behind him.

And here he is now: Paris, France. A penthouse suite. White silk sheets and a crystal chandelier in every room. A marble bath, fine dining, balconies overlooking the Seine. The only surviving Grand Duchess of Russia curled at his side in bed, her hands intertwined with his.

The late morning sunlight casts rectangles of pale gold across the length of the room. Dmitry recoils from the sudden brightness, his eyes heavy and smarting. He’s not hungover, thank God, but with the angry headache building at his temples he may as well be. 

Anya, ever the light sleeper, is already awake, but judging by her appearance, not much more so than he is. “Good morning,” she says with a drowsy half-smile. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot, smudged with mascara and eyeliner left over from last night. Her hair has tangled into a rat’s nest. Her lips are chapped, the skin of her nose is peeling, and a patch of drool has dried up on her cheek. Dmitry thinks he’s never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

“Good morning, princess.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that,” she says, and playfully swats him on the nose.

Dmitry smirks. “Of course, Your Highness.” Anya presses her freezing-cold feet against his shins in retaliation.

“Ебат-копат!” he shrieks, and Anya laughs, a bright, ringing sound that fills the room and makes his heart skip.

“Are all you conmen this jumpy?”

“Only the good ones,” says Dmitry, and Anya snorts.

“Well, you did make it to Paris without being shot. I’ll give you partial credit for that.”

He reaches over and tucks a loose curl behind her ear. “So, how did you sleep?”

“Terribly,” she says with a dazed grin. “How could anyone sleep after going through what I have? It’s all so much to take in. Paris. I’m in _Paris_ of all places, can you believe it? It’s so much more than I ever imagined.”

“How does it feel to be your old self again?” 

A sigh. “Oh, Dmitry, I don’t know. I don’t know at all. Who am I, really? I can never be Anastasia again, but I don’t think I can go back to being Anya either.” She gazes distantly towards the ceiling. “Maybe something in-between, then. How does that sound?”

“Whatever makes you happiest.”

And there it is again: that lovely, charming smile, the one that shows all her teeth and wrinkles the corners of her eyes. “Yes. I like the sound of that,” she says.

Dmitry props himself up on his elbow. The covers have half-slipped off the bed by now—did he kick them off in his sleep? “And _are_ you happy here?”

“Of course I am!” says Anya, and a flush of pink colors her cheeks. “Oh, Dmitry, you have no idea how badly I have wanted this. _Together in Paris_. I have my Nana again. I have you. What more could a girl want? There’s nothing that could make me happier.”

But Dmitry can hear the uncertainty in her voice, see the quivering of her lower lip. He takes her hand in his and squeezes it, a gesture of reassurance. “Is there anything you want to talk about?"

“Do you still miss your parents?”

He offers a feeble smile. “With all of my heart. I think of them every day.”

Anya squeezes his hand softly. “Me too. I have everything I always said I dreamed of and yet I just can’t stop thinking of them. All of them. Mama and Papa and Olga and Tatiana and Maria and Alexei. It’s so silly of me, Dmitry. I know I can’t ever have them again, I know that’s all gone and over, but I can’t stop dreaming that if I close my eyes and wish hard enough that they’ll be there when I wake up. Silly, didn't I tell you? It was almost better when I didn’t remember—I didn’t know what I had lost. I just wish…” Tears have edged into her voice, and she trails off mid-sentence. Anya sniffles and wipes her eyes. “Oh God, look at me, getting all choked up again. I’m so sorry.”

Dmitry presses a soft kiss to her hairline. “Don’t apologize, please. Go on, I’m listening.”

She breathes in deeply, squeezes her eyes shut. “No, I’m alright. It doesn’t matter now, I can’t dwell on that. Crying won’t bring them back. The past is spoken for; I just want to enjoy what I have now. This. Us.” She kisses him again, slow and sweet. “It all feels like a wonderful dream.”

Dmitry quietly thinks to himself that if this is all a dream, then it is beyond anything that his love-starved mind could ever possibly concoct. And though he’ll never admit it aloud, he is terrified—terrified that one day he will be forcibly awoken from this beautiful fantasy, terrified that he could have it all and then just as soon have it all ripped away. He of all people knows that this universe is not inclined towards generosity, and after all, what has he done to merit anything of the sort? Had he not lied to her, deceived her, used her as a pawn in his schemes?

And even after all that, after all that he had put her through, after all that they had _been_ through together, she still came back for him. She had kissed him, even— _kissed_ him! Him—the penniless son of a failed anarchist. A peasant, a street rat, a flat-out nobody.

Anya sniffles again. “How do you bear it?”

There's a horrid, painful lump pressing against his throat. Dmitry swallows past it. “I remember them. I remember them as they lived, not as they died. I leave the past behind and I appreciate what I have now. That’s how I do it.”

Anya presses her face to the crook of his neck, one hand tangled in his hair, the other tracing lazy circles against his back. Her tears wet his collarbone.

“I love you, Дима,” she whispers.

 _Dima_. The name brings tears to his eyes. How can a word feel so foreign yet so familiar at the same time? A word that carries with it memories of love and warmth and happiness—proof that he was loved once and is now loved once more. _I love you too, Anya,_ he wants to say, but his throat has closed of its own accord and his tongue lies heavy like a lead weight in his mouth. Instead, he kisses the crown of her head and wipes away her tears.   

And so they lie together, intertwined and silent. For how long, Dmitry has no idea, nor does he care.  

“Did you really mean it?” he says after a while. “What you said last night?”

Anya rolls onto her back, a smile lurking in the corner of her mouth, eyes still tinged red. “You’ll have to be more specific. I said _quite_ a few things last night, if I recall correctly.”

At that, Dmitry feels his face grow hot. “You mentioned something about kissing a handsome prince in Paris.”

“Oh yes, _that_ ,” she says with a mischievous tilt to her head. “Of course I meant it.”

“And it doesn’t bother you that your ‘prince’ is a failed conman of no rank or wealth or importance?”

Another kiss, on the mouth this time. “Not a tad.”

Dmitry opens his arms again and Anya obliges, snuggling up to him and holding onto him as if for dear life. It’s the most at peace he has felt in years.   

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” he murmurs into her hair, and Anya giggles.

“Oh, how _romantic_ of you,” she says with flourish, and Dmitry can practically hear her grinning. “My Дима, my handsome prince. I could just lie here with you forever and ever and ever. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

 _Yes_ , he thinks. _Yes it would_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ебат-копат" is a Russian expletive generally used in the same sense as "Jesus Christ!" or "Oh my God!". If there are any native Russian speakers willing to correct me on this that would be super awesome since I only read this on the Internet and am not fluent in Russian.

**Author's Note:**

> Anastasia has forever been one of my all-time favorite movies and I've fallen in love with it all over again in its Broadway incarnation. I've been a big reader of fanfic for quite a while but I've never had the guts to actually post something of my own, so here it is: my first foray into writing fanfiction!  
> Any and all feedback/criticism is appreciated. Thanks for reading! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i knew even then (i'd find you again)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701031) by [peterparks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterparks/pseuds/peterparks)




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